


All Your Faithless Loyalties

by autoschediastic, Ponderosa



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Hercules Hansen, Dom/sub, Father/Son Incest, Ghost Drifting, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Marshal arrives, decked out in full dress blues, the crowd in the hallway parts like the sea to allow him entrance then surges close behind, blocking the exits. A respectful step behind and to the right of Pentecost's shoulder marches Herc, head high and proud despite the blank tag on the generic collar on his throat. The old man looks good for his age. <em>Past his prime</em>, someone mutters. <em>Trained for more than half his life</em>, another says. <em>He'll make up for the grey in his beard</em>. It takes all of Chuck's hard-won control to remain poised and calm at the edge of the mat. It's not his place. Not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"We're learning more about the phenomenon of the neuro-empathic bond every year. The intensity has seen marked increase since the first confirmed case, and primitive levels of memory transference and motor control have been exhibited and studied in the past six months. It’s been theorized that at the rate at which the phenomenon is evolving, a machine-assisted neural handshake will be unnecessary by the time the Mark VIs are cleared by R &D, and with drift-compatible individuals 200% more likely to form a bond, the future of the PPDC is clear.”_

_The instructor stops gesturing at the charts projected on the wall to focus on the assembled students. She rests her forearms on the lectern emblazoned with the PPDC Academy logo. Her posture is casual and yet the submissives in the room still react. Chuck shifts in his seat simply because he’s bored--he’s been living in a ‘dome since he was a kid, he already knows everything there is to know about pilots and bonding._

_“Now, no matter what the scientists say, as it is, bonded pairs in a cockpit are a bonus, not a requirement. The only requirement remains drift compatibility. In today’s lecture we’ll be covering technique for same-orientation pairs. Yes, they’re rare, but you’ll be familiar with Romeo Blue piloted by two dominant siblings...”_

*

The kwoon has always been a place of peace to Chuck. The warmth of hardwood beneath his bare feet soothes the same as the steady rhythm of a match, bodies and breath in synch to the counterpoint of bo against bo. That the room is empty and silent now makes no difference. The mats are cleaned, weapons racked, the lights dimmed in preparation. There are too many months of anticipation packed tight in his chest for him to be as empty as the kwoon, but he's as ready. His sole focus is the constant, low-grade hum of a bond waiting for its match. This close to its realization, it curls restless through his blood, consumes his days the same as the dreams consume his nights.

Breathing deep, he closes his eyes. In daylight, the dreams are memories old and faded, scraps of sensation. Freckled skin flushed hot beneath his palms. Shaky, desperate breaths against his cheek. Arms and legs curled tight around his body and the way they shook as he sank deep into clutching heat. 

Later, he’ll ask if it was the same for his father. If the dreams plagued Herc’s sleep, drove him desperately into the hands of others and was still left wanting. If he ever woke gasping in the middle of the night in come-drenched shorts and aching for the sweet-sharp pain of stripes laid across someone else’s back.

Once today is done, he’ll ask. 

At the hour mark, the lights come up. Candidates and spectators trickle into the room in twos and threes, filling the waiting silence with whispers. Little more than a year ago, a sneered _that's Herc Hansen's son_ earned him bloodied knuckles, a red mark in his file, and the Academy psychologist gently asking if he resented his uncle. Today it strengthens both his posture and his resolve, and does more to calm the insistent churn in his guts than any technique he's been taught. He is Herc Hansen's son, and there's only one man left to prove it to.

Long before the scheduled matches begin, the kwoon is buzzing. When the Marshal arrives, decked out in full dress blues, the crowd in the hallway parts like the sea to allow him entrance then surges close behind, blocking the exits. A respectful step behind and to the right of Pentecost's shoulder marches Herc, head high and proud despite the blank tag on the generic collar on his throat. The old man looks good for his age. _Past his prime_ , someone mutters. _Trained for more than half his life_ , another says. _He'll make up for the grey in his beard_. It takes all of Chuck's hard-won control to remain poised and calm at the edge of the mat. It's not his place. Not yet.

Soon, he tells impatience coiled tight in his gut.

“Marshal,” Chuck says, taking a step onto the mat. The swelling whispers are no match for the hum in his bones as Herc's searching gaze finds his in the crowd. Though Herc's stance doesn't waver, though his gaze remains steady, in that moment, Chuck knows the same current riding him is echoed in Herc. He can feel it looping back on itself, building to a peak. If anyone else in the room feels a spark, it can’t be as strong as his. Words he's practiced for weeks inside his head don't dare stick in his throat. “Sir, I respectfully petition for first trial in hope of a quick and successful bond.”

Herc's eyes slide shut as a murmur goes through the crowd. He bows his head as the Marshal leans close to exchange a few quiet words. It's been over a year. If Pentecost had wanted to do more than throw a standard issue collar on him, he would've done it before now. A solid handshake in the drift isn't enough anymore. The program needs bonded pilots to handle the Mark V's load and Pentecost knows it. Everyone knows it.

Rumor is the Marshal’s as cold as his ‘dome, but even if he could bond with someone, the man’s never going to be in a conn pod again. The PPDC wants Herc Hansen wasting away at a desk even less than it wants him in a hand-me-down Jaeger.

“Trials will commence in order of registry,” the Marshal announces. “Ranger Fforde, ready yourself.”

Chuck’s jaw clenches tight at the sickening thought of his father back in some rusty old Mark IV instead of at his side in the first new Mark V off the line. “Marshal--”

“Ranger, though you seem to believe you’re the only candidate in the room to exhibit signs of bond-readiness, I assure you that is not the case. Nor am I unaware of your situation. Now as I said, trials will commence in order of registry. Ranger Fforde!”

At the Marshal's touch to his elbow, Herc steps forward and waits for the clasp of his collar to be undone. Neck bare, gaze forward, he moves to the edge of the mat and removes his boots. Hands folded behind his back, he sinks smoothly to his knees. Another murmur goes through the crowd, this one far more appreciative than the last. It stokes the anger simmering Chuck's belly just the same.

Inevitability should temper the wait as another takes his place. Whoever Fforde is, while he was good enough to make the trials cut, any idiot watching him lumber across the mat can see he's not fit to drift with Herc. He puts a hand to Herc's shoulder and vicious satisfaction curls Chuck's lip as the old man balks like a virgin. It turns to a sneer as Herc rises regardless, allowing the two fingers hooked beneath his chin to lead him onto the mat. Though Chuck can't hear what the candidate says to Herc next, the shape of the words trickle like ice water down his spine.

“Don't like that?” Fforde asks with a chuckle. “Pick up your stick and have a go anyway.”

“Sir,” says Herc, loud and clear and head bowed the barest minimum as he steps back. “Thank you for your consideration.” He sinks back to his knees at the edge of the mat, silent.

Fforde stands alone on the mat, furrowed and frowning. He wipes his face clean with a shrug and gives the bo he's holding a careless toss aside. “Next one'll have a prettier face,” he says with a leer, careful to make it clear he's not talking about the candidates.

“Ranger Rostovtzeff,” Pentecost calls, dismissing the man, “next up!”

A strong-built woman steps onto the mat. She's pretty enough to be worth more than a second look, confidence clear in her stride. Herc's posture has firmed up noticeably by the time she comes to a stop in front of him, her gaze calm and assessing as she gives him permission to stand and arm himself. That she seems pleased by how smoothly he obeys is dwarfed by how pleased he seems to do so, and every clack of wood as they wind seamlessly together and apart drives another nail into Chuck's skull. They're drift compatible for sure. The coolness of the mat beneath Chuck's foot startles him. For the first time, Herc falters, his gaze drawn past Rostovtzeff's shoulder. He goes down fast and hard.

As she offers Herc a hand up, Chuck steps carefully back. His guts twist as she pets Herc's face, a smile too fond and familiar on her own. She’s had Herc before. Maybe shared when he was bound, maybe after, once it became clear that Pentecost wasn’t up to the task and the old man needed a heavy hand to ground him. If they sparked then--

“The lack of it weighs heavily on you,” says the woman, but shakes her head as he moves into position again. “As it does for me. Kneel for the next.”

Herc sinks again to his knees, this time in front of her, head bowed deeply with respect and no small bit of disappointment. Chuck forces his breaths slow and even through the impatience eating at him. Fully half the room or more could be on the roster. Another few hours, even a day or two, should be nothing compared to the months he's already waited. But his father was half a world away then, not barely twenty feet. And there was no doubt like the doubt now plaguing him.

As always, he has Herc to thank for that. 

Pentecost says, “Ranger Hansen, to me.”

Chuck’s gaze hardens as Herc rises and goes to the Marshal like a well-trained dog. Nothing, not even the thought of taking this frustration out on Herc's hide, can temper the constant, needling buzz spreading through his limbs. He forces his fists to unclench.

At the Marshal's calmly spoken, “Pass or continue, Ranger,” they curl tight again, blunt nails digging into his palms.

All eyes in the room are on Herc. The sudden surge of emotion so clear and so clearly not Chuck's own confirms what the whispers and the Marshal's leaden gaze suggest: his name is next. But the choice is Herc's. Open refusal will shatter the fledgling bond like it had never been and Chuck holds it fast, tries to separate from the tangle what's him and what's Herc as he's been taught. He can't tear out Herc's hesitation or the conflict that's causing it, but he can bury it beneath Herc's want and that's just as strong.

Herc looks one last time to the Marshal, his back turned to Chuck. The tension shows in his bare shoulders and his wordless regret pools thick and sour on Chuck's tongue. Herc’s regret is so heavy, so wound around itself, it’s overwhelming and impossible to interpret. Pure anguish burbles up from the pit of Chuck's stomach, and there's no question this time that the hard slam of emotion is his own. This is supposed to be his chance to reclaim everything the Breach took from him. To pick up the scraps of what was left, the tiniest slivers that Scott hoarded, and prove it more than enough.

The mat cool beneath Chuck's feet doesn't startle him this time. He calmly picks up the bo the first candidate tossed aside and strides to the middle of the mat, body relaxed and loose, fear tucked carefully away from the pull of the bond. All Herc needs from him now is surety.

When Herc turns to face him, the bond doesn't break. But neither does it settle and strengthen. Chuck had always imagined mating a bond meant it quieted, became a steady, sure presence. Something solid in a world where too much changed too fast.

Steady is the last thing Chuck feels as Herc drops smoothly to his knees at the edge of the mat and says, “Continue.”


	2. Chapter 2

_A week out from final trials, the common room is buzzing with cadets desperate to blow off some steam. With the coast on lockdown from irregular Breach activity--as if anything to come spewing out of that hole in the ground is normal--the usual downtime haunts are off-limits. Seeing all that nervous energy build has got Chuck thinking this might be part of the trials after all. Henry Chu, the only cadet with the scores to give him a run for the Mark V, is crammed in a corner with a hand on his shoulder and he’s still shaking hard enough to rattle the blank tag on his collar._

_“Nah,” says Joe, bringing Chuck’s attention swinging back, “not for me. When I find the right one, I’ll have her collar soldered and a ring on her finger like a good catholic.” He elbows his brother and grins. “Back me up, Adam, c’mon.”_

_Heyfa snorts. “Good luck finding a sub desperate enough to sleep with either of you.”_

_“Oh, ouch,” Adam says, and mimes taking a shot in the heart. “And here I thought you liked me!”_

_“She’d top the shit out of you,” Chuck puts in, and laughs go up all around the loose circle. Through the noise he catches the sharp bark of an order and again his gaze jumps to Henry. A handful of seconds is all it takes to suss out that the dom Chu’s been nosing after for weeks isn’t just playing at ignoring him. Chu’s putting on a good show but it’s clear he needs more than a lazy hand and a few orders to ground him._

_“Nobody even does rings anymore,” Heyfa says. “What’s the point?”_

_Joe shares another look with Adam like he can’t believe he’s got to explain. “The point--”_

_“You gonna piss on her, too?” Chuck asks, and slides his feet off the table._

_“Hey now,” Joe says, laughing again, “if she asks nice!”_

_Heyfa glances up as he stands, then follows his gaze. She arches one thin brow._

_“Yeah,” Chuck says, and steps over the sprawl of Joe’s legs. “Catch you guys later.”_

_He’s standing over Chu before Joe catches on. Joe’s obnoxious _oooooh_ gets half the room’s attention, but not Chu’s. The kid’s so far out of it he barely notices when the dom clues in and the useless hand on his neck slips away. His name doesn’t get much more._

_“You owe me a match,” Chuck says, steady and calm though he’s ready to deck the dom eyeballing him. “Henry, you hear me? You owe me a match.”_

_Henry’s head lifts slowly. “A match?”_

_“A match.” Chuck holds out a hand. “Now are you gonna walk to the kwoon or are you going to make me carry you?”_

_“A match,” Henry echoes, and gets to his feet like climbing out of the ocean. Chuck hooks a finger on his collar’s sole ring to lead him through the halls. If Henry registers the catcalls following them, it doesn’t show in his step. Though he’s steady when they hit the mats, he still spends most of the match on his knees. Exactly where he needs to be._

*

Herc waits on his knees, head dipped. Whispers fly through the crowd. _Is that really Herc Hansen’s son?_ says one woman, voice dripping with scorn. _I’d kill to put a collar around that neck,_ breathes another. _He was bonded and collared to his own brother before,_ comes a murmur coached in knowing tones.

Chuck forces a grin and shakes his head. “Stand up, old man, if you're going to make me work for it. Come see how much your boy's grown.”

Though Herc might've been the one to first teach Chuck the rules of a match, there's more than the distance of years between then and now. Herc's braced for the brute strength behind Chuck's first strikes but not their speed. He recovers quickly enough, begins pushing Chuck back in turn, that there's a rumble of appreciation from the crowd, one that's echoed deep in Chuck's chest. He knew the old man wouldn't disappoint. He spins and ducks and nearly lands a solid point to Herc's midsection except Herc's aimed for a point of his own and there's nothing but the loud crack of wood as they connect. Again and again that sound rings out and Chuck can't tell if it's been one minute or ten when laughter bursts out of him. He grabs at Herc's bo as it skids along his, gives it a shake and a shove as they twist apart. The look on Herc's face is the same mix of grudging amusement and resignation that's been aimed Chuck's way for as long as he can remember, betrayed by the fresh tug of his eagerness in Chuck's gut.

“Been awhile, eh?” says Chuck as they circle. He grins at a feint, steps into the next and deflects. Herc's sharp grunt brings with it another tug to Chuck's insides. In skill it's clear they're evenly matched, and without the weight of doubt, Chuck's free to take Herc's measure. There are moments when one type of training nearly overtakes the other and Herc falters but he lets each of those slide by, cataloguing all the tells that were never clear enough on the few vids he had access to. The thin thread of frustration left clinging from minutes ago isn't the same anymore. Isn't his. Herc's ready to be taken down.

Between strikes that come faster and faster, Chuck says, “Harder, old man,” an order that Herc doesn't have to obey, not yet, but does anyway, and sure, steady joy burbles up from Chuck's belly to fill his chest. “Five years a Ranger and that's all you got?”

Herc's answer is a solid crack aimed to upset Chuck's balance when he steps to avoid it but he takes the full force of it head-on instead, freely giving up the point as wood skids and thuds into flesh. Before Herc can disengage, his hand is on Herc's throat, skin slick and hot and pulse pounding against his fingertips, so new but still so familiar that it makes Chuck’s breath catch.

Herc's eyes snap shut. A thin, black tendril curls through Chuck's joy but there's no doubt in him now, nowhere for Herc's own to find a foothold and fester. For long seconds he holds his father steady, their bodies still and breaths in sync. The quiet slip of Herc's bo from his hand to the mat nearly drags a moan with it.

“Stand up straight,” Chuck says, voice thick. Herc's throat works in his grip as the old man slowly draws himself together and settles into parade rest, his head bowed. He doesn't flinch at the tip of Chuck's hanbo at the underside of his chin, his breaths coming heavier as slight pressure brings his head up. His eyes stay closed. “Stand up straight and look at me.”

A noise breaks on Herc's tongue the second his eyes open. Whatever it was meant to be, Chuck hardly cares. A slight tightening of his fingers, not even enough to hurt let alone cut off Herc's air, brings a fresh tremor to Herc's legs. He eases off as Herc gets it under control, strokes the rapid flutter of Herc's pulse and relishes the scrape of stubble against his thumb. His own throat threatens to close up, crammed full with too much to name, when he asks, “Do you accept my claim and want to kneel?”

Herc's body buckles, only Chuck's hold keeping him on his feet. There's a small scar under Chuck's index finger, curved like a ring pulled tight, bit into flesh. The band of paler skin where Herc's collar sat is softer than the rest, rubbed smooth by the constant tug of leather. His hand covers it almost perfectly. “Use your words, Dad,” Chuck says, another shiver rippling through Herc as he sets one end of the hanbo to the mat and one end to Herc's chest, leaving it balanced there to settle both hands around Herc's neck. Fingers locked, he presses his thumbs to the hollow. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Herc rasps, his gaze dipping briefly as if he wants to close his eyes again. He fights to keep his brows from pulling together, and Chuck can feel an ugly twist that says some part of Herc is lying. As Herc’s gaze flicks across Chuck’s mouth the flash is gone like it was never there. “Please, yes.”

Heat spreads from Chuck's core. His arms prickle, the sweat from their match is already drying in the artificial cool of the kwoon. When Herc's gaze drops south again, Chuck follows, laughing loud when he realises he's hard, tenting the front of his trackies. “I just bet all you want to do is go to your knees.”

A harsh murmur goes through the crowd. Chuck casts a glance their way, registering disgust and desire and the whole gamut between, before his gaze hooks on the Marshal. Pentecost's reputation says he brings nothing into the Drift and even now, with the old man panting for it, his face is blank. That right there, Chuck's tempted to tell him, is exactly his problem.

“Couldn't stop thinking about it, you know,” Chuck says, stepping in close, careful not to dislodge the hanbo Herc is doing an impressive job of keeping steady. Chuck's training is nagging at him to put the order into words, make sure Herc knows what's expected of him, but acknowledged now, the bond's running as deep and strong as a drift and Chuck's certain Herc knows just fine not to let it drop. Herc probably knows too that he's got a warning in his file for communication issues with his subs, but that one is the old man's fault to begin with. The way he figures it, him and Herc, they've been working outside expected parameters from the get-go. “If you felt it. First time a man gets a tug like that, who's he supposed to go to? Got to be his daddy. Especially when he knows his daddy's been bonded before.”

Herc drags in a slow breath. He's got a look in his eyes Chuck's never seen before, one part ready to give his boy a dressing down and two parts ready to beg for one of his own. Giving or receiving, discipline never really did much for Chuck. Then came a long, confusing stretch of nights he barely remembers and another longer stretch of psych evals that set his teeth on edge. Herc should've been there then.

He's not ashamed of the slow creeping satisfaction when the resentment coiling through his veins seeps into the regret in Herc's. He lets it linger and wonders if anybody watching has any idea why Herc's mouth goes soft. Herc's going to make it all up to him, starting here.


	3. Chapter 3

_Distance and fresh kaiju blue seeping into the atmosphere makes the footage grainy. The volume’s turned low so they can both hear the slick wet noises Henry’s body makes as Chuck fucks up into him. His hands are bound, rope looped through a hook in the ceiling to steady him and give him something to pull against as he balances on his heels over Chuck’s lap. He gave up watching the coverage ten minutes ago, when his eyes slid shut for the last time and his head fell back on Chuck’s shoulder. He whines through his teeth every time Chuck’s palm rubs the head of his cock._

__Pilots Scott and Hercules Hansen celebrate _reads the text scrolling beneath the shaky picture. PPDC teams stream through the smoking rubble, giving Herc on his knees half-hidden by broken chunks of a wall a respectful berth. His face is pale beneath the black smear of soot._

_“Please,” Henry chokes out, his thighs trembling. Sat right down on Chuck’s cock and held there, he can barely breathe. “I can’t-- It’s--”_

_“You can,” Chuck says, mouth soft against his shoulder. His arsehole clenches tight as he gulps air. On the screen, Scott’s grin is sharp-edged and satisfied. As_ good boy _forms on his lips, the picture jumps down to his feet. Herc’s face is in the dirt again. He strains on his toes to lift his arse high for the lazy, off-centre swat Scott aims at it. His boot skids on loose rubble._ Debate rages over kaiju meat _scrolls by as he crashes to one knee._

_“I can’t, I’m sorry. Please, please,” chants Henry. He squirms on Chuck’s dick as Chuck’s hand curls under his balls. He tries to draw his knees closer together at the first slap but the rope looped under the mattress keeps him exposed. “I’m sorry, please, I--” and his voice breaks on a cry. Another slap makes his whole body tighten and Chuck moans into the butter-soft leather of his collar. Chuck slaps him over and over until his voice goes hoarse and all that’s left is the sound of skin striking skin._

_When the camera finds Herc again, half his face is bright red._

*

“Ask me,” Chuck says, geared for the endorphin flood when it's for his forgiveness Herc begs. Sins of the father, pardoned by the son. That's his problem, so said the head doc.

“What do you want me to call you?” hits Chuck's like a splash of icy water. He's too close to hide the surprise from Herc, twisted up too tight in the bond. A ripple through the crowd brings a fresh stain of heat to chase the chill from his skin. He barely manages to bite back the sharp _What?_ that's on the tip of his tongue. Even harder to control is the urge to smack the hanbo aside and shove Herc to his knees.

Instead, he releases Herc gently and watches him sway without the support. A quick shift catches the hanbo precariously in the folds of Herc's shirt before it can fall and the moment it settles, Herc freezes. Fear sparks through their connection.

“Dad, I--” Chuck blurts, thrown again. From the start of the trials to the bond still a mess roiling inside him, even less settled now than it was before, none of this is going the way he planned. That Herc's not a quiet, steady presence in his head like he'd been told to expect--

The crowd's nothing but a mass of murmurs. Chuck eases the clench in his jaw and lets it flow over him like a wave. “Dad,” he repeats, and the wave swells, becomes the perfect edge to ride as he brings his mouth close enough to taste the breath on Herc's lips. He aches to touch again--or Herc is the one craving that weight around his neck, flesh and blood as solid as steel and leather--but his hands close over the hanbo instead. He gives it a tiny nudge against Herc's cock, whispers a quiet, “Atta boy,” in the same voice he uses for Max and the flush that spreads like wildfire up Herc's neck tells him Herc knows it. “Now give me a kiss.”

Herc doesn't move when their mouths touch. His lips are parted, breath-damp and soft when Chuck sucks gently at the bottom one. It was _give me a kiss_ when Chuck was six and sick with excitement for daddy to come home. _Give me a kiss_ when it was a loud, joyful smack on the lips, squirming because daddy's face was scratchy. Then _give me a kiss_ when daddy wasn't there anymore, when Chuck's dreams weren't his own and the techs talked about ghost drifts and parallel bonds and how the hell did the kid know how to do that.

The same as how Chuck knows a scrape of teeth is enough to loosen the noise caught in Herc's throat. How that's all it takes for Herc to open for the push of Chuck's tongue, turn from passive resistance to greedily trying to suck on it when all Chuck offers is a little flick. There's an angry shuffle of feet, a handful of muttered curses.

“You'll call me either the name you gave me,” Chuck says, pitching his voice loud. He pauses to nuzzle at Herc's wet mouth, make it the show they all want. Same-orientation pairs are like unicorns, and everyone in this room that didn’t sign on the roster came here for the sole reason to watch Herc Hansen get collared again. “Or you'll call me son. Understand?”

Herc's, “Yes,” is more a hiss, the hanbo pressed snug to his cock and his body held carefully still, hands in fists at his sides.

“You'd hump it like a dog, wouldn't you? Think I might let you for a laugh, but Christ, old man, even Max's posture is better than this mess.” Muscling in close, close enough to hear the hitch in Herc's breath, Chuck swings the bo up behind Herc's back. He hooks it under Herc's arms, pushes it tight under his pits so it forces his chest high and wide. It pulls the fabric of his shirt taut, shows his nipples tight beneath the cotton, raised and begging like his cock. Gathering up the hem of his shirt, Chuck rolls it into a tight ball and says, “Open your mouth.”

Immediately, Herc's mouth falls wide. Chuck stuffs the balled-up hem in it as far as it'll go, then gives it a pat and a loud kiss. He stays close as he tugs at the knot holding Herc's trousers up, grinning at the bit of saliva already gathering at the corner of Herc's lips. “Hear that?” he says, eyes on Herc's as the waistband slips down one hip. “Sounds like the lot of 'em are jealous bastards. You know what I'm gonna do about that?” Leaving the band caught, Chuck pushes at Herc's shirt again to make sure it won't slide down in his way. His fingers barely touch Herc's skin, a surge of prickly impatience not his own twisting tight every time they get close. “I'm gonna let every last one of them have a look at you.”

Yanking Herc's waistband wide, he lets his trackies slip, grinning when they catch on Herc's cock for a second or two before the weight of cotton drags them down. He's hard enough his cock slaps against his belly as it bounces free, a tail of sticky wet precome left dangling from the head. Mixed noises come from the gathering, some of appreciation and some of disgust, and it's the latter that hook in Chuck's guts.

“Knew you weren't as stupid as them,” Chuck says as he steps on the crotch of Herc's trackies where they've caught on his calves, pushing them to the mat. Herc spreads his feet wider in response and Chuck knows now how to let his pride echo clearly across the bond. “Bet the whole lot of 'em thought you'd be satisfied being in service to your boy. Do my laundry. Shine my boots. But you didn't serve Uncle Scott like that, so why should I get anything less?”

The hanbo makes Chuck cut a wide berth as he circles Herc, far wider than he'd like but the goosebumps prickling along Herc's limbs makes up for the lack of warm skin beneath his hands. There was only so much an acknowledged but unconsecrated bond could teach him about Herc's needs. Even now, with it clicked into place, thrumming in his head like a perfectly tuned gear, the only thing it's telling him is please. _Please_ , as loud and clear as if Herc's mouth wasn't crammed full of cotton.

The light catches shiny-slick near the shallow curve of Herc's arse. Mid-step, Chuck moves back in close, whispers a rough, “Dad,” as his fingers follow it from cheek to crack. Herc's jaw clenches, his t-shirt soaked dark with spit. He came here--knowing his own son was on the roster--greased and ready to get fucked. Chuck can't stop the tremble in his arm as he nudges a too-gentle finger against Herc's hole. For a long minute, all he can think about is sinking his dick right here and now into the tight heat of his father's body. Holding Herc close as it settles deep in his guts that it's his boy inside him. That everything he is belongs to Chuck, and that he wanted it.


	4. Chapter 4

_The Academy psychiatrist crosses her legs as she browses his file. On her left wrist sit the same two slim leather cuffs that were there four years ago when she did Chuck’s intake assessment. People talk with scorn in their voice when they say she’s unattached because she’s got a thing for someone else’s submissive. Nobody likes the shrink._

_She pulls up a page from the folder and slides it across the short table between them. “Tell me how you felt when you learned from the tabolids that your father had bonded to your uncle.”_

_Chuck shrugs. “Knew it wouldn’t take him long.”_

_“Long for your father to bond again? Or for it to be your uncle?” She pauses, waiting for an answer Chuck isn’t planning on giving. “Your mother was dominant like you, wasn’t she?”_

_“That’s what it says right there.”_

_She uncrosses her legs and leans forward in a tactic to foster their connection. Chuck smiles and shakes his head at her. He was never that green._

_“Chuck,” she says, her eyes intent, “your focus on your father’s bond isn’t anything we haven’t seen before. It’s natural to find a surgent bond confusing. It’s even more natural to resist it. Many people have reported feelings of unease at its pull. But don’t you wonder who might be out there for you? As a pilot candidate--”_

_“I’m not confused.”_

_She smiles at him like she’s heard that one before._

_“I mean it,” Chuck says. He rests his elbows on his spread knees and touches the two leather cuffs on his left wrist. They’re good, thick leather, unfinished on the inside with a single metal disc on the outside bearing his initials. Sometimes he likes to think the old man picked them out himself, even if the card that came with them was written in someone else’s hand. “I’m not confused. Used to be, sure. Used to be just a kid. I’m not anymore.”_

_The pen in her hand twitches. “What makes you say that?”_

_“If you ask me,” Chuck says, his gaze on the photo displayed on the table, “bonding makes perfect sense.”_

_It’s a tabloid snapshot several years old. In it, Herc is in the standard submissive position, sat back on his heels with his hands palm up on his spread knees. His throat is naked and his eyes are blank. He looks wrong._

_She watches him for a long moment. “Does the picture upset you?”_

_“Not the way you think it should.”_

_She taps the table and pulls up another photo. In this one, Herc is naked on his knees, face to a wall. Scott's several feet away, laughing with some men in crew gear. “It doesn't upset you to see your father like this?”_

_Painfully slow, Chuck says, “He's submissive,” and hopes to god it'll get through her bloody thick skull this time. The fancy degree on the wall must’ve come out of a Kellog’s box. “Why should it?”_

__Because he's your father _her eyes say. She pulls up another. “And this one?”_

_He shakes his head. She pulls up picture after picture, some candids, some promotional shots for PPDC recruitment, some from years before the Breach. His answer is the same to them all. Finally, she goes back to the first. “Tell me about this picture.”_

_Some photog snapped it the week Scott’s dishonorable discharge hit the news. It took three days for the report to hit Anchorage. The dreams got worse before they stopped, suddenly and worryingly. When they came back they were different. Better._

_“That’s my father,” Chuck says, and doesn’t tell her he already knows the taste of Herc’s sweat and his pleasure at serving._

*

Small, breathless noises catch high in Herc's throat. Chuck sucks in a hissing breath, shaking his head as if that'll help loosen the bond he's drawn tight around Herc like a noose. “You'd take it,” he says, the harsh edge of his mistake riding his voice. “You'd beg me for it. Just-- Just fuckin' _look_ at you.” The backhanded slap he gives Herc's cock is just this side of too hard, but all Herc does is let out a sharp cry. He trembles in anticipation of another but his feet stay firmly planted, his body poised open and vulnerable. “All you are is a greedy hole desperate to get fucked.”

The surge that comes across the bond nearly knocks Chuck back a step. He gives his head another shake before he realises it, another rookie mistake that makes the back of his neck burn. “The kid can't even handle him,” someone mutters. His gaze jumps to Herc's bo forgotten on the mat.

Herc makes a loud noise behind the makeshift gag. Chuck grits his teeth against the cold weight that forms in the pit of his stomach. It isn't Herc's place anymore to be disappointed in his son. This isn't the old man's first time out, he should know that. And thanks to his fucking cunt of an uncle, Chuck knows exactly how to punish him so the lesson sticks like barbs.

But when Chuck meets his father's eyes, there's no disappointment there. There's nothing except the steady pulse of the bond and the _please, please, please, need_ riding it. He puts a hand to Herc's cheek, mirror-image of a memory that isn't his, and the warmth of Herc's skin chases away the icy chill as if it had never been.

“Good,” Chuck says, nothing more than a casual bit of praise to onlookers. Herc preens under it just the same, his chest held high, cock ruddy and thick as he nuzzles his face into Chuck's palm. Chuck takes a moment to enjoy the eagerness in Herc's quick breaths before he curves his hand over Herc's face, fingers spread wide to hold his head still. All movement stops save Herc's shallow breathing.

“Think it's time you got on your knees for me.”

Even hobbled as he is, Herc drops smoothly to the mat. He sits back on his heels with his knees spread wide, hands loose and head up, attentive. Chuck ignores the urge to glance at the crowd, see who doubts him now, and pushes both hands into Herc's short hair, gripping tight. He straddles Herc's spread knees, gaze on the flutter of Herc's lashes as he hauls Herc close but not close enough. Herc lets out a quiet moan and his eyes fall shut, his nostrils flaring wide as he breathes deep the smell of his son's hard cock. The blend of emotions pushing through the bond is thick like cough syrup.

“D'you want to beg for it?” Chuck asks, rocking his hips so his cock bumps Herc's chin. Herc shudders as if he'd actually gotten a taste of it. “Let everybody see how badly you want your son to fuck your face for you.”

Herc groans again, straining for a split-second against Chuck's grip before he remembers himself. On pure impulse, Chuck yanks the shirt out of Herc's mouth, barely registering the sound of a torn seam as it catches on Herc's teeth. “Open your mouth,” he orders, not giving Herc a chance to work the soreness from his jaw. Again, Herc obeys without pause, mouth wide and head tilted up for Chuck to run a few fingers over his teeth and gums and tongue like he's an animal to be inspected. He goes easy when fingers hook on his teeth to drag him forward, his balance upset and his face pressed hard to Chuck's crotch. He stays exactly like he is without being told, moaning quietly. Through the bond, his desire to cram his mouth full is so strong Chuck's balls ache with it.

Before Chuck thinks it through, he gets both hands back on his head and grinds Herc's face into his crotch. Herc's moan rips through them both, his body lax and mouth still open even with the pain of his lips caught and ground against his teeth. That Herc takes it, savours it, is what makes Chuck say, “Get it out and you can have a taste.”

Herc's whole body jerks, then goes still. He gulps air, waiting for the rest he somehow knows is caught in Chuck's throat. Chuck swallows a hard breath and says, “That's right. Keep your hands to yourself, old man.”

This time, Herc barely spares a moment to nod his understanding before he tears into the knot at Chuck's waist with his teeth. His eagerness makes him clumsy, and his spit soaks the knot before he's managed to loosen it enough. He gives up quickly and switches to yanking at the waistband, and all Chuck can do is watch and let awe fill his chest as Herc sinks deep into raw desperation. The noises coming out of him sound less and less human the longer he struggles.

A disgusted noise comes from the thinning crowd. Chuck tosses off a merry salute to the first candidate's retreating back. Most of those left are staring raptly at Herc. One lets out a laugh that cuts to nothing as Chuck's gaze lands on him. At Chuck's slow grin, he tries out a nervous one of his own, jerking his chin at where Herc is starting to whine through his struggles.

“That one's laughing at you,” Chuck says. He lets a hand rest lightly on the top of Herc's head. “Can't blame him. Should see yourself getting on like a starving mutt.” A knee to Herc's chest doesn't stop him for long. He takes a few seconds to register that it didn't mean stop and then he's back again, that whine low and steady in his throat as he switches from side to side trying to work Chuck's clothes down over his hips. He gets careless enough that his teeth scrape skin, but Chuck's warning grip on his hair doesn't keep it from happening again a few seconds later.

“Hey!” Chuck barks, and gives him a shake hard enough to get through the fogginess clouding his eyes. A discordant twinge comes across the bond. Chuck focuses in on it, giving a measure more care to his words than Herc did to his teeth. “Did you hear me say take a chunk of it?”

A few chortles go up around the room. Mutely, his eyes cast low, Herc shakes his head. He swallows hard and Chuck follows suit, realizing only then that the thick lump forming in his throat isn’t his. It takes seconds longer than it should for Herc to lift his gaze when ordered. Chuck grips tight to the bond and his gut quivers with the same icy chill that woke him night after night in the weeks after Lucky Seven’s decommission. Those dreams are over now and he’s not the one who deserves that look from Herc.

Chuck’s hand finds Herc’s throat, a makeshift collar that chases some of the cold from his veins. He digs his fingers in bit by bit until the spark of pain brightens the dullness in Herc’s eyes. Electricity begins to crackle through the unsettled bond. “What did I tell you?”

Herc swallows a few times more before he finds his voice. “That I could taste you.”

“And what'd you do?”

“Let me try again,” Herc says. His jaw works as he searches for the right words. “Please.”

“Give me a reason.”

Herc's hands curl briefly into fists. He looks down at the mat, his fallen hanbo, everywhere but Chuck. All that comes through the bond is confusion, a hint of doubt without a source. But Chuck can guess. He gives Herc a tap on the face to get his gaze front and centre again, making sure Herc is focused on him and that spark and not the ghost clamouring to get inside Chuck’s head. “Look at me, and give me a reason.”

“Because,” Herc says slowly, not as if he doesn't want to say it but as if he feels he shouldn't, “you're my son.”

“Again.”

“You're my son.”

“ _Louder_.”

“You're my son!” rips out of Herc, then a quieter, “ _please_ , son, let me,” as he strains forward. A grateful, almost pained noise follows as Chuck lets him close again, and he's just as eager as before, just as frenzied, but there's a focus thrumming along the bond that makes his task easy. Stubble scrapes Chuck's cock as he noses aside cloth, curls his tongue at the root to coax it the rest of the way free. Chuck barely has time to breathe before he awkwardly stuffs his mouth full and freezes, his low moan vibrating through his chest, threatening to take Chuck's legs out from under him. His throat works as if he wants to suck but his mouth stays soft, cradling Chuck's dick on his tongue, taking his fill of the only thing Chuck said he could have: a taste.

“Good,” Chuck manages, glad his voice is steadier than his limbs. He pets his father's face, stroking from jaw to throat over and over as he digs up enough control to keep from going wild on him. Herc's mouth is wetter, so much warmer than the scrap he felt in his dreams. “Stay like that.”

Herc's answer is a soft noise, his eyes slowly closing as Chuck continues petting him. That it's more for Chuck's benefit than his doesn't matter. With his father's mouth on him, Chuck looks out over the crowd again. More stuck around than he thought. Duty-bound, of course Pentecost stayed. His vantage point is the best in the house. It's a shame he doesn't appreciate it.

“Dad,” Chuck says, dropping his gaze back to Herc only after he's sure Pentecost's listening as well as watching, “suck me off.”

Herc doesn't hesitate before he wedges his throat wide around Chuck's cock. He stays there until he begins to tremble, fighting to swallow and breathe at the same time. Only when Chuck's impatience starts to eat at him does he move, pulling back to suck sweetly on the head before using his own weight to drive Chuck's dick deep again, sucking as it slips free of the trap of his throat, over and over until Chuck's head is swimming. Stubborn pride is all that's keeping Chuck on his feet. Though Herc knows all the tricks, though Chuck’s felt them in dreams as Herc struggled to please someone with no desire to be satisfied, there's nothing fancy in the curl of Herc's tongue against his slit. It's a raw hunger to get Chuck off as soon as possible, fill his mouth with more than the salt taste of skin. It barely even crosses Chuck's mind to slow him down. If Herc wants to show the whole 'dome how much a slut he is for his boy, let him.

Still, Chuck's hands find a grip on Herc's skull again, slowly take over the punishing rhythm Herc's set. As soon as it registers with Herc, he relaxes, accepts the push of Chuck's cock and doesn't struggle even when his lips grind against Chuck's pubic hair. His back starts to heave long before he makes a desperate plea for air. Even then, he barely catches his breath before he pushes for more. Spit and precome smear his face as Chuck's dick skids past his open mouth. He ducks to try to catch it, grunting and triggering another round of catcalls from the spectators as he strains with the tip of it barely hooked on his tongue. Chuck holds him there until he starts to beg. He doesn't dare use words and risk losing Chuck's dick leaking into his mouth, but he shifts restlessly, whines low in his throat, stares up at Chuck with the please clear in his eyes. He's gone red in the face, a wretched, sweaty mess that doesn't care who's watching.

“Dad,” Chuck says, gripping his cock to angle it straight into Herc's mouth. Herc's grateful moan echoes off the ceiling and through the bond. Gratitude like Chuck's never felt fills his chest, runs thick through his blood and coils the heat in his belly tighter. His throat closes over when he comes, sealing his breath in his lungs as Herc's mouth fills and spills over. Spunk drips down his neck as Chuck pulls free, aiming the rest to coat Herc's face. It catches on his lashes and smears into his hair when Chuck presses his cock to Herc's cheek and fucks it into his skin. Herc turns his face to Chuck's dick, careful to nuzzle at it without letting more spill from his mouth.

Chuck catches a scrap of breath to say, “On your feet.” Even with a hand to help, Herc sways. His eyes are glassy when Chuck thumbs away the come smeared over the left and he blinks them slowly open. His bottom lip trembles slightly when Chuck mouths at it and tells him to swallow. It takes a second order for him to obey, and a third for him to open his mouth again to the push of Chuck's tongue. He stays stock-still as Chuck kisses him, his breath shallow and thick with the smell of spunk. A few murmurs go through the crowd. He's still hard.

“Your boy wants you to kiss him with your filthy mouth,” Chuck says, his lips wet with the come smeared on Herc's. “Not going to disappoint me now, are you?”

Herc's throat clicks as he swallows. Whatever he means to say is lost as he surges into the kiss Chuck offers, reluctantly slowing to Chuck's lazy pace when it gets him nowhere fast. A hand laid to his throat sets him off again, those same noises as when he strained for Chuck's cock, and Chuck laughs into his mouth as the bond sings.

After Herc's sucked the taste of come off his tongue and his lips are swollen and tight, Chuck firms his grip. Instantly, Herc goes still. “Sir,” Chuck calls out, his gaze solid on Herc's and his mouth split in a wide grin, “Ranger Hansen is submissive to me and bonded to me. He deserves a proper collar. Permission to be dismissed.”

Pentecost’s reply is neither too slow or too fast to come. “To me, Ranger Hansen.”

Herc looks to Chuck for permission before he calls, “Sir,” in acknowledgement. 

The misery that strikes Chuck cripples Herc’s even stride.

*

_“Our society is adapting, just as we did when the first kaiju hit land, but amidst all this change, it’s my role to prepare you for reality as we know it. No matter what you’ve heard, there is no ‘one true person’ out there for you. Each and every one of you will have plenty of opportunity to form lasting and loving relationships with or without a neuro-empathic bond._

_All of you know that bonds form when, using the familiar term, a ‘spark’ is present between two individuals. Continued exploration of the bond by both parties will cause it to deepen, just as rejection, time or distance may weaken or break it. It’s been shown in multiple, documented cases, that individuals placed in extreme circumstances may bond regardless of their orientation._

*

Chuck strains to hear whatever Pentecost says, whispered low and intimate into Herc’s ear. The blatant show of rank, of power, of _dominance_ raises Chuck’s hackles. He controls his breathing, reminding himself that rank means a few stars and a desk, and that the Marshal’s power wasn’t tons of steel and brute force anymore.

And as to dominance, well, everything that’s pouring from Herc now with the Marshal _touching him_ , hand on his shoulder, means nothing. Herc isn’t kneeling, and as Chuck’s sureness settles, Herc’s posture changes; he _wants_ to return to Chuck’s side.

Pentecost reveals nothing when their exchange ends with Herc nodding and stepping away. His gaze goes to Chuck. “Permission to be dismissed, granted.”

“Ranger Hercules Hansen,” the Marshal continues, “I hereby transfer you into the care of your new partner.”

*

_“The dissolution of a very deep bond can be extremely difficult or traumatic, and in this case, the stories are true: there are proven instances where the only termination available is the death of a partner.”_


End file.
